Memo to Obama Supporters: Chill on the anti-Perry snark.

I’ve got one thing to say to Obama supporters: chill on the Rick Perry snark.

Here are just a few examples.

In this week’s New Yorker comment, editor David Remnick, author of The Bridge, a biography about the President, wrote the following:

‘Leading from behind’ ….  The phrase ricocheted from one Murdoch-owned editorial page and television studio to the next; Obama was daily pilloried as a timorous pretender who, out of a misbegotten sense of liberal guilt, unearned self-regard, and downright unpatriotic acceptance of fading national glory, had handed over the steering wheel of global leadership to the Élysée Palace.

We were, as Mitt Romney put it, “following the French into Libya.” The President was “dithering,” Sarah Palin declared. John McCain wanted boots on the ground.

….. Rick Perry, for his part, shot an elephant in his pajamas.

You can just hear the chuckles emanating from the page as the reader moves seamlessly along Remnick’s defense of Obama’s actions toward Libya as an example of his pragmatic, non-doctrinaire foreign policy.

Silly, backwards Texan.  Unengaged, misinformed, highly religious neanderthal Perry.

Unconvinced?

Check out this post from Think Progress’ Ian Millhiser.  After talking about Perry’s statements that Social Security and Medicare are unconstitutional, Millhiser writes (Again, I’ve bolded the snarky part):

Perry’s reading of the Constitution raises very serious questions about whether he understands the English language. The Constitution gives Congress the power to “to lay and collect taxes” and to “provide for the…general welfare of the United States.” No plausible interpretation of the words “general welfare” does not include programs that ensure that all Americans can live their entire lives secure in the understanding that retirement will not force them into poverty and untreated sickness.

For those who would say that Think Progress is a left-leaning blog, so should be expected to write as much, consider this opening paragraph from a piece from Amy Bingham ofABC News:

What would America be like under a Rick Perry presidency? Well, if Rick Perry’s Texas is any indication, the country could look forward to 85 mph speed limits, hog hunting from helicopters and a security check “fast-lane” for concealed handgun carriers. 

The article goes on to highlight seven laws from the past legislative session that are “uniquely Texas,” and to include a quote from a University of Texas that says the Texas legislative session is “often a circus of curious legislation.”

“You can go to any session and pull out a few things that are unusual to say the least,” the professor said.

Which is precisely what Bingham has done-draw on selected examples to use as the basis for a larger argument about how Perry would govern the United States, if elected.

Don’t get me wrong.

I am neither looking away from all of what many consider to be bizarre aspects that Perry brings to the race.

My point is several fold.

The first is that by engaging in a sarcastic dismissal, you fail to engage the radically conservative vision the man is espousing and to which many Americans are responding enthusiastically.

After announcing his candidacy just over two weeks ago, the man has jumped to the top of a number of credible polls,  is considered one of the top two Republicans and is projected to be running in a dead heat with Obama.

But smugly dismissing the man as a right-wing nut case fails both to examine the more substantial aspects of where he would take the country and to talk in a way that might convince wavering independents who could play a critical role in next year’s elections.

I’m not suggesting either backing away from Perry or being overly deferential to him.

By all means, talk about the man, his record, and his plans.

But do so in a way that leaves the possibility of reaching new and different people, rather than will just convince those people that the authors and their readers are self-impressed people who are providing no meaningful alternative.

The failure to take Perry and the people who support him seriously has already contributed to the rise of the Tea Party and the disproportionate influence their members yielded during the recent debt ceiling debacle that led to the nation’s credit rating being downgraded.

Such blithe dismissal rather than concerted opposition to Perry and a simultaneous pushing of Obama to  govern from the hopeful and transformative vision he articulated so memorably and movingly in 2008 could play a role in Perry getting elected, as did George W. Bush and Ronald Reagan, two other Republican governors who were underestimated before taking the nation’s highest office, did before him.

For many, that wouldn’t be funny at all.

 

 

 

The Empty Nester Chronicles, Part II

It was the first full day in Evanston of our being empty nesters, and, in a strange way, nearly 11 years into our marriage, it feels like Dunreith and I are newlyweds.

We saw the signs of Aidan’s missing presence at various points in the day-in a glance at his now empty bedroom, in thinking about contacting him, and in realizing that he would not be there at the end of the day when we returned home from work.

I thought about how he enjoyed his second day of classes, about if he feels himself settling into any kind of routine, or what he will do during his first full weekend in New Orleans.

In a lot of ways, the day felt like I was wearing a new set of clothes that do not yet fit, the material calling attention to itself as I put it on and afterward.

It’s not that our activities were different from a normal Tuesday after a three-day weekend.

We got up, showered, had breakfast and prepared for the morning ride into work.

We checked in during the day and met afterward, talking about our days and  stopping at Whole Foods for a Kombucha before returning home for dinner.

It was our orientation.

At the same time, for the first time since we’ve been together, here in Chicago, Dunreith and I were just thinking about ourselves.

I know that Aidan’s been at camp before for a couple of weeks, but always for a defined amount of time and with the promise of return to our home.

Even though we’ll see Aidan at the end of next month, at Parents’ weekend at the end of October and at Thanksgiving, this feels different.

His time as a child in our home is over.

His orbit is out toward the world.

And he’s not here, but 950 miles away in New Orleans.

The empty nester clothes will feel more comfortable soon, and I’m excited to explore with Dunreith our new life together.

It’s just a little itchy right now.

 

 

The Empty Nester Chronicles, Part I: Drop Off at Tulane A Mission Accomplished.

Left with him.  Came back without him.

That was the main objective of our 941-mile journey there and back to the Crescent City, where Aidan had his first day of classes as a college student at Tulane University today.

We accomplished it with remarkably little drama, no tears and a series of smiling hugs.

We packed up the fire-red Jeep Cherokee the night before departure-a process that left our hallway/dining room more than a tad messy and the back of the Cherokee filled with more stuff than Dunreith said she and her brothers took to their colleges combined.

Illinois gets rural fast outside of Chicago, and the miles and miles and miles of cornstalks and green farms came into focus shortly after we got onto Route 55 outside of Chicago.

We arrived at our friend Michelle and Glenn’s place in Memphis shortly before evening and instantly headed over to Central Barbeque for a full slab of wet ribs and pork nachos, the first I had ever eaten.

After having slept most of the day in the car, Aidan was a tad dismayed to realize that New Orleans’ being nearly 400 miles away from Memphis, rather than the 100 or so he had anticipated, meant that we would have to get on the road by 4:00 a.m. in order to arrive at his dorm by 10:00 a.m.

Dunreith and I let him that our purpose was to get him there when he wanted, and,  although the ribs, nachos, beer and wine sloshing around in my stomach meant that I got even less sleep than the time I was in bed, we all did our parts and got rolling at the designated time.

The New Orleans humidity smacked us in the face as we pulled into campus just after 10, and were directed to Sharp, Aidan’s dorm.

We unloaded the Cherokee’s contents-in an arrangement that echoed Noah’s ark, two large suitcases, two travel suitcases and two gym bags, one green and one blue ,highlighted his possessions-and saw them instantly toted upstairs to the fourth floor by green-shirted orientation volunteers.

This was just the beginning of Tulane’s version of Southern hospitality. Students gave directions to lost parents like Dunreith and me when asked without a hint of imposition  and held the doors for us to pass through them.

Aidan set right to work getting his room in order, and, in what was not quite as much of a shocker as The Crying Game, he got everything to fit in the appointed space.  I’m talking printer, computer, toiletries, linens, clothes and books all fit onto his side of the linoleum-covered floor.  In no time at all,  in fact, the suitcases were in the hallway, ready to be returned to Evanston, and Aidan’s space looked as if he had been living there for months.

Dunreith and I set off for the French Quarter, where we stayed at the Iberville, a Ritz-Carlton affiliated hotel with Ramada-like prices thanks to a Tulane parent discount.

Aidan took the St. Charles street car line over to meet us for dinner, and we headed to Felix’s Oyster Bar, one of several restaurants in the Quarter that Dunreith’s brother had recommended to us. The grilled oysters were absolutely drenched in garlic and a gruyere-tasting cheese.  Although they may have succeeded in closing my heart’s arteries, they also provided plenty of pleasure along the way, as did the bayou sampler of crawfish etouffee, jambalaya and gumbo.

The three of us took the St. Charles trolley line through the Garden District back to Tulane, the breeze that came through the windows and cooled us as we sat on the wooden seats a welcome relief from the thick heat.

Dunreith and I walked most of the way back to the Quarter, passing under the hundreds, if not thousands, of beads that hung from telephone wires, nearby trees and trolley wires, a vestige of last year’s Mardi Gras festivities that glinted in the moon and street light.

The Quarter was in full weekend swing, the sounds of street musicians on Bourbon Street mingling with the smell of sweet alcoholic drinks and vomit from those who had enjoyed the Big Easy too much.

The goodbye that we all knew was coming hung over the next day like a rain cloud, threatening to cover us as we had an unexpected lunch with Aidan after attending a Business School Orientation meeting for parents and purchasing some last-minute computer supplies before heading back to his dorm with the 10 reams of paper we had bought at Office Depot earlier in the morning.

Yet somehow it never burst.

Aidan, who had seemed understandably nervous on the ride South, smiled as he put his hands on his hips before reaching out to Dunreith and hugging her.

I handed him a letter I had written and placed in an Iberville envelope.

“I should have seen that coming,” he said before we hugged, too.

We told him we were proud of him and hugged a couple more times before he walked toward the dorm after telling us not to call him until today.

And so, 48 years after a King shared his dream with the nation, and the day before the six-year anniversary of an epic hurricane lashed the mouth of the Mississippi with biblical fury, we watched our son walk away from the car that had delivered him to his college and the site of the beginning of his adult life.

I had expected sadness and tears, but, somehow, seeing him settled in, happy to meet new students and dive into the adventures ahead left me feeling uplifted, light even and present.

Dunreith and I muddled around the directions to get off campus and onto the detour that would take us around the closed I-10 West and back to our home in Evanston.

Our life as empty nesters had begun.

 

We’re Walking to New Orleans (Well, Driving, Really)

To borrow from the great Fats Domino, we’re walking to New Orleans.

That is, if walking consists of driving a red Jeep Cherokee that is already loaded to the gills before Aidan has put in all of his clothes.

He’s planning to wake up at 4:00 a.m. to put the finishing touches/cram everything in whatever space remains.

You get the idea.

Suffice it to say that my trip West to Stanford in September 1983 was just a tad different.

If memory serves, I had a large suitcase, a pair of middle-aged anatomically correct dolls Mom had just bought for me, and a poem she wrote entitled, “For Jeffrey Who Made Me A Mother.”

Mom signed the poem with her name, Alice Adelman Lowenstein, and then put in parenthesis the words, “your mother,” in case I had forgotten.

These are my memories of my experience.

But now, of course, it is Aidan’s time.

I’ve talked with others who have gone before me, and they confirm my feelings of time moving impossibly fast, of Aidan’s childhood and mine all having gone by in a blink,  and of being firmly entrenched in the middle of my life.

On Sunday, Dunreith and I will say goodbye to Aidan, tell him we love him and make the return trip home to Evanston.

For the first time in our married life, it will be just us in the house.  We will be empty nesters.

I don’t know what that will be like, and I do know that I feel fortunate that we’ve had the time that we have, with the first stage of Memphis tomorrow.

The walk starts in six hours.

Pat Summitt’s Announcement, Lisa Genova’s Still Alice

Legendary basketball coach Pat Summitt announced yesterday that she has early dementia of the Alzheimer’s type:

Many people have commented since how Summitt plans to meet this challenge, as she has all others in her life, with her customary grit and toughness (After all, this is a woman who delayed having her only child while returning from a recruiting trip so that her then-husband could be there for the birth.).

The support for Summit has been unanimous, from Candace Parker, who tweeted the following message:

@Candace_ParkerCandace Parker 

Coach Summitt you never cease to amaze me with your strength and courage. Whenever you face adversity you tackle it … tmi.me/eTfs8

to her longtime rival, University of Connecticut coach Geno Auriemma, who paid tribute to the indomitable redhead.

The Tennessee community has also rallied around Summitt, who said she will rely more than every on her assistant coaches.

As she gets adjusted to her changing and diminishing abilities, she might consider reading Lisa Genova’s Still Alice.

The novel tells the story of Alice, a tenured Harvard science professor at the height of her powers whose getting lost while jogging near her home is the first sign that she has started to lose her faculties.

Eventually, the diagnosis comes in: early onset dementia.

As opposed to Summitt, Alice tries to keep the truth hidden for a while, and it comes out. Much of the book chronicles her gradual but inexorable decline, the losses little by little of memory, and, ultimately, of her self.

And, as may be the case with Summitt, family gets her through.

The book shows how the diminution of her cognitive abilities is accompanied by a deeper connection with love, especially her youngest daughter.

Summitt already has that relationship with her son Tyler, who said in a statement yesterday how much he admires his mother’s strength and courage in dealing with this and every other challenge she has encountered.

The love Summitt receives from Tyler and the rest of her Tennessee and basketball family will likely grow in different directions in the upcoming weeks and months.  Still Alice shows one side of how Summitt’s decline may go, and, as we all learn each day, we are all in the end like snowflakes, made of the same stuff but each different in our way.

The Boston Irish writers: Russell, Crane, MacDonald and Lehane

I hope you’ve been following it, but in case you haven’t there’s been an absolutely ripping dialogue about real and perceived violence, urban neighborhoods, activism and the future, to name just a few topics, coursing through this blog.

The authors are my friends, fellow fathers and frequent commenters David Russell and Jack Crane.

I’ve had little to do with the exchange, other than giving Mssrs. Crane and Russell a platform to air their articulate and passionate views, both of which are informed by decades of lived experience and commitment to values.

Dave and Jack both hail from Massachusetts, and, as one might expect from their surnames, both descend from large Irish families.

The Emerald Isle has produced many great writers in its day-Beckett, Joyce, Yeats and Wilde are only four of the most well-known-and their transplanted brothers across the pond haven’t fared poorly, either.

In addition to the aforementioned blogger/activists, we’ve got Michael Patrick MacDonald, author of All Souls, his wrenching memoir about growing up in South Boston during the era of busing and a pre-fugitive Whitey Bulger.  In Coming Up From Under, MacDonald writes about the role music played in helping him get out of Southie.  The book culminates with a trip to his ancestral land with his inimitable and indomitable mother.

Dennis Lehane also has direct ties to Ireland, as both his parents were born there.

The Dorchester native and Boston College High School graduate uncorked a gripping mystery and potent, if painful, look at Boston’s Irish community in Mystic River.

I had seen the film that netted Sean Penn and Tim Robbins Oscars when it came out, and picked up the book in Rockport last week at Dunreith and my dad’s recommendation.

Dad in particular said he enjoyed the movie, but found the book much better.

I agree.

Lehane tells a riveting tale of three friends whose lives are permanently altered one afternoon when they are 11 years old.   Dave Boyle is taken away for four days by a pair of pedophiles and abused for four days before escaping, while Jimmy Marcus and Sean Devine live the haunting possibility of what could have been.

A quarter century later, each man has known additional loss.

The book begins with the murder of Marcus’ oldest daughter-an act that brings Devine back to his former haunts and that also draws in Boyle, who has since married a cousin of Marcus’ second wife (His first, the murdered girl’s daughter, died while she was in prison.).

As Russell and Crane did in their dialogue that started with violence, Lehane uses the story to tell about a neighborhood, the class divides within it, the ongoing erosion of the turf by yuppies, and the darkness that lies within so many, if not all, of us.

The result: the book almost read itself.

I found myself, in a rare occasion, putting aside my copies of Hoy to polish off Mystic River.

That you can become so engrossed in a book where you already know the outcome is impressive indeed, and that is exactly what happened to me in Lehane’s capable hands.

I’ll keep on writing and, I hope, stimulating continued thoughtful dialogue from my two friends.  In the meantime, if anyone’s looking for an entertaining and quick read, you could do an awful lot worse than picking up the fourth of the Boston Irish quartet.  Beckett and Joyce they may not be, and I’ll read with pleasure and gusto whatever they have to say and whenever they say it.

Jack Crane on Violence and America.

Friend, fellow Massachusetts native and regular commenter Jack Crane has worked on Chicago’s South Side for many years.  Here’s what he had to say in response to my post about Steve James and Alex Kotlowitz’s new film, The Interrupters:

Yo Jeff, I figured you and the Mrs. were drunk on emptynesterhood and hiding out in some Maine cabin for the rest of the summer! 

I just got back from a week in the Door County woods with the grandsons and son. Rested, and feeling good about living on a s’more diet and camp songs, why did I read your blog about the Interrupters this morning! :-/ Well, one way of getting right back to the work front!

I was recently at a South Side community activists meeting to discuss ways to attract more retail business in the Bronzeville neighborhood. I stated flat out that we needed to address the yes, epidemic, violence in the neighborhood. Several colleagues countered me by talking about the need to distinguish between “perceived” violence and actual violence. As soon as I heard the word perceived, I loosened my tie and tongue. “Would anybody in this room walk down 47th Street from the Dan Ryan to Lake Park Ave and not fear for their life?,” I asked. There was a long, silent pause in the room. “If there is a murder in Evanston, which certainly has gang issues, the entire community is all over the tragedy. Why do we state ‘perceived” violence, when kids are in fact shooting, robbing and killing each other almost daily on the South Side? Why do we tolerate even one shooting?”

Having spent my career working in Chicago’s South Side, and currently housed in the most violent police beat, I must say I am deeply discouraged by what I perceive as the complete abandonment of low income, minority neighborhoods by the mostly white, affluent power brokers. Sure, there is a steady handful of courageous community activists, including the CeaseFire trio in the documentary, doing amazing work – but most eventually burn out as the chaos breaks down their hearts and souls.

My own hunch is that not a few charismatic nuts will soon organize the growing disenfranchised, and horrific violence will be pitched in the manicured North Shore lawns. The pot is well beyond the boiling point (7 teens arrested last night for mob action, robbery and beating and 18 year old in Chinatown) in my estimation.

To end on a positive note, there are not a few activists, mostly quite young, who recognize that despite President Obama’s good nature and intelligence, he is very much a part of an America which no longer makes any common sense really. So they are turning in new directions, exploring alternative ways to discover and create beauty, justice, compassion. They give me much hope, and I enjoy breathing in their refreshing breeze.

jack

I’d love to hear your thoughts about any number of the points that Jack raises. 

Is there a meaningful difference between “perceived” and actual violence? Is Jack right that lower-income neighborhoods have been abandoned and that the residents will be coming for their affluent contemporaries?  What about the young and not-yet-burned out activists?

As always, questions, comments and disagreements are welcome.

Obama’s vulnerability from former supporters

That President Barack Obama has been under unrelenting and implacable attack and resistance from all manner of Republicans, from the moderate to the Tea Party, is not news to anyone who has paid the least bit of attention since January 20, 2009, the day he became the forty-forth president of the United States.

That an overwhelmingly white and religiously fervent group of people would strenuously resist the nation’s first black president is hardly a surprise. Indeed, this relentless opposition and recent credit downgrade have contributed to the sub-40 percent approval rating Obama has received, according to last week’s Gallup polls.

What is perhaps more troubling for his reelection prospects is the discontent that is rumbling among his former supporters.

I met one of them at the Red Roof Diner, a homey restaurant located near the entrance to Northeast Iowa Community College in Peosta, Iowa, where Obama stopped for a Rural Economic Forum on his “listening tour” of the Midwest.

A stocky white man with glasses who worked at a salvage yard and had a propensity for memorable phrases-he called the debt a “sword of Damocles” that is likely to hang over the nation for decades-Kevin explained that he had been “foursquare” behind Obama in 2008.

Now, though, is a different story.

He’s looking hard at other candidates.

At this point, the one he feels most enthusiastic about is Ron Paul, the “intellectual godfather” of the Tea Party and a fountain of libertarian ideas and policies.

Kevin said what has disappointed him most about Obama is his unwillingness to engage in political combat against his opponents.

“I told him, ‘You need to fight,’” said Kevin, who said he has met Obama on three occasions.  While the then-senator did not respond verbally to the exhortation, Kevin said he felt Obama’s discontent, even anger.

Obama also is generating anger among some African-Americans, who faulted him for not stopping in black neighborhoods during his heartland bus tour.

Many people who have been reluctant to criticize him publicly due to their pride in his being the first black president and the knowledge that his political adversaries are only too willing to use criticism for their own purposes. Nevertheless, the foreclosures and job losses that have devastated so many black neighborhoods in the nation’s cities are starting to cause people to speak out.

Here is U.S. Rep Maxine Waters speaking in Detroit on Tuesday. Notice the blend of wanting to give the president “every last opportunity” with the statement that she and others in the Congressional Black Caucus “don’t know what the strategy is.”

Beyond Waters’ words, the passionate response from the audience should be the deepest cause for Obama’s concern.

Meanwhile, I also spoke in Dubuque, Iowa with Horacio, a permanent deacon at St. Patrick’s church, the only one in town that holds a mass in Spanish.  Horacio explained that Obama’s unfulfilled promise of immigration reform has led him and other Latinos who voted for his message of hope and change in 2008 to be far more wary for the upcoming election.

Latino, rural white and black voters were all key groups in Obama’s historic victory in 2008.  While there is still time for him to bring these folks back into his fold, it’s hard to see what tools he has left in his arsenal to generate the same passion and fervent belief-anyone still remember the audacity of hope-that propelled him to his groundbreaking win.

Dart Society Reports is live!

David Handschuh's photo is one of the many powerful parts of our new magazine.

I’m real excited and proud about this one.

After much, much hard work, Dart Society Reports, the inaugural issue of the Dart Society’s human rights journalism magazine, is launched.

Please feel free to check it out, comment and spread the word as widely as you can.

As you’ll see, the issue centers on the tenth anniversary of the September 11 terrorist attacks.

The central package in the issue is from member Jacques Menasche, whose son Emanuel attended elementary school near Ground Zero.

Cause and solutions to violence: Steve James and Alex Kotlowitz’s The Interrupters

The Interrupters tells the story of people risking their lives to reduce violence in Chicago.

SECOND UPDATE:

Friend, fellow Massachusetts native and another frequent commenter Jack Crane offered this typically articulate and passionate point:

Yo Jeff, I figured you and the Mrs. were drunk on emptynesterhood and hiding out in some Maine cabin for the rest of the summer! 

I just got back from a week in the Door County woods with the grandsons and son. Rested, and feeling good about living on a s’more diet and camp songs, why did I read your blog about the Interrupters this morning! :-/ Well, one way of getting right back to the work front!

I was recently at a South Side community activists meeting to discuss ways to attract more retail business in the Bronzeville neighborhood. I stated flat out that we needed to address the yes, epidemic, violence in the neighborhood. Several colleagues countered me by talking about the need to distinguish between “perceived” violence and actual violence. As soon as I heard the word perceived, I loosened my tie and tongue. “Would anybody in this room walk down 47th Street from the Dan Ryan to Lake Park Ave and not fear for their life?,” I asked. There was a long, silent pause in the room. “If there is a murder in Evanston, which certainly has gang issues, the entire community is all over the tragedy. Why do we state ‘perceived” violence, when kids are in fact shooting, robbing and killing each other almost daily on the South Side? Why do we tolerate even one shooting?”

Having spent my career working in Chicago’s South Side, and currently housed in the most violent police beat, I must say I am deeply discouraged by what I perceive as the complete abandonment of low income, minority neighborhoods by the mostly white, affluent power brokers. Sure, there is a steady handful of courageous community activists, including the CeaseFire trio in the documentary, doing amazing work – but most eventually burn out as the chaos breaks down their hearts and souls.

My own hunch is that not a few charismatic nuts will soon organize the growing disenfranchised, and horrific violence will be pitched in the manicured North Shore lawns. The pot is well beyond the boiling point (7 teens arrested last night for mob action, robbery and beating and 18 year old in Chinatown) in my estimation.

To end on a positive note, there are not a few activists, mostly quite young, who recognize that despite President Obama’s good nature and intelligence, he is very much a part of an America which no longer makes any common sense really. So they are turning in new directions, exploring alternative ways to discover and create beauty, justice, compassion. They give me much hope, and I enjoy breathing in their refreshing breeze.

jack

UPDATE: Friend, master teacher and frequent commenter David Russell had this to say:

I want to see if I can find a showing of The Interrupters. It’s questions are my questions also. A few weeks ago a former McKinley student was killed, and this rekindled in me the maddening question of why. It is so wrong, so unnecessary, just shouldn’t happen. But it does and it does. Even though there are so many people working against it. I guess this just shows that numerous powerful forces, listed by you above, are also persistently at work. We will see what we can do. Hopefully by the end of our lifetimes we can get to the point where murder is a much more unheard of thing.

On this much, all but the most hardened or disinterested observer can agree: the levels of violence in many neighborhoods across the country is unacceptably high.

The deaths of hundreds of young people, disproportionately black and Latino, most often at the hands of others, is both heartbreaking to the families and an ominous trend for our nation’s current and future health.

But the definition and diagnosis of a problem make all the difference when thinking about it solution.

And the consensus breaks apart almost instantly, though, when one starts thinking about the reason why and what, if anything, should be done about it.